It was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake when I clicked on it, but the therapist in me was curious and the survivor of abuse in me never wants to be alone. I had done a stupid thing and left Alex's headlights on when I borrowed his car, draining his battery. I had nothing better to do while pinned in my car between his car and the house in our barely-wide-enough driveway, foot halfway down on the gas, trying to feed enough power over to his car for about 25 minutes. I clicked on a story about a child sex slave. This story. I wouldn't recommend you read it if you don't want to hate people today. I cried. Let me explain.
I've been in therapy ever since my Ahjashi died. He was a man who was every bit a father to me. When he died, I was devastated. I wasn't prepared, as much as people tried to let me know what was going on. I didn't react the way I thought I would. I didn't cry at first. I just screamed. God, it was so unfair. I was a senior in college and he was supposed to see me walk at the end of that school year. He was supposed to be there for me and be proud and I just couldn't fathom that he wouldn't be. I couldn't get it together, so the Residential Director of my dorm room couldn't help but notice and walked me down to my college's counseling center. There I met an awesome therapist who helped me so much during that difficult time and I've changed hands a few times since then, but more or less I've been in therapy since September 2009.
I thought I had it pretty together. I thought I was strong enough to overcome what I had gone through while I was growing up. I was wrong. As soon as we processed through my grief, my therapist showed me everything that was lurking underneath my surface. It was terrifying and painful. I was and had been for some time an angry little girl who struggled to accept her feelings. It wasn't until I had been transferred over to a student after my first therapist had maxed out his available sessions with me that I started really feeling that anger. This is what I share in common with the girl in that story.
There were many adults in my life who could see what was going on, or were so close, or worse yet completely turned a blind eye because it was too hard or not proper or embarrassing. How dare they. How dare they. I was so angry when I finally got around to feeling this. How could they not help me? How do you look at a child, know they're hurting, and say to yourself, "Not my problem?" I couldn't fathom it. I was so full of rage, but mostly I cried and mourned for the younger version of myself. I didn't deserve what happened to me.
What made it worse was when I moved into my apartment away from the campus proper. It was the top floor or a two-story house, and it was lovely. It turned out that my bedroom was directly over the bedroom of the little girl who lived downstairs. It was amusing to sometimes hear her get ready in the morning, singing her favorite boy band pop songs at the top of her lungs. The downstairs neighbors were lovely people. We rarely had problems. Then one day I happened to be home when the little girl came home from school and I heard her getting punished for, as far as I could tell, bullying another girl at school. I was paralyzed, frozen in place, listening to this all happening below me. I wasn't there. I couldn't say for sure, but it sounded like her mother was really laying into her. I could hear the smacks through the carpeted floor. I could hear the little girl painfully crying. And I did nothing. I didn't go down there and stop it. I didn't call CPS. Nothing.
I was a mess at my next therapy session. God, that was so painful. My therapist, god bless her, she tried so hard to help me understand that it wasn't my fault and I couldn't help and maybe I would've just made things worse and maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought. I mean, I had never heard the mother punish her child like that before, nor raise her voice. All evidence pointed to the fact that it was an isolated incident, but this clearly wasn't about the little girl who lived downstairs. This was about me. I was that little girl living downstairs and I know damn well the upstairs neighbors heard what was going on on more than one occasion and no one did a damn thing. God, I was so angry. How could they? Why wouldn't anyone help me?
I once let it slip to an elementary school counselor when I was in kindergarten or first grade, and it went about as well as it did for the girl in that Cracked article. I was once caught in an unconvincing lie about why I had bruises on my arms. My tutor didn't press further. Some people even walked in on it happening and pretended they saw nothing. A pastor was told from the source and played a major part in making sure we all pretended to forget what happened. This was all so painful to recall, but I got through it.
I started crying when the girl in the Cracked article talked about scars, because I know what she's talking about. I am unloved and ugly. I am unbearable and a bad person. Except I'm not. I know I'm not - most days. Therapy helps. Time helps. Amazing, supportive friends help. Alex helps. I still have bad days.
So why did I click on the article? Well, it's nice to know that you're not alone sometimes and hell, I'm a therapist. I got into this field for a reason. It is part of my job to listen to and sit with my clients' traumas. It is also part of my job to call if I have any inkling of neglect or abuse of a child. I do both gladly. I will not be the adult who ignores. I will do my job and, if possible, extend further help. My experience in the field and especially in my graduate program, where I had the privilege of getting to know like-minded people who were also in this field for a reason, has shown me that I'm exactly where I need to be.
I just have bad days, that's all, days when my heart hurts. A lot.
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